


Doll

by Ereschkigal



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Chases, Death, F/M, Falling In Love, Lust, Minor Character Death, Personality Swap, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:06:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27895774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ereschkigal/pseuds/Ereschkigal
Summary: People kill. They steal. They think they get away with it. And then you hang them. As part of the state-run Justice Hunters, you take on those who are beyond redemption. The Code of Law is your Bible and Hisoka is the lost sheep on the slaughterhouse floor. Actually, it's quite simple. You find him guilty of all his murders and sentence him to death. But he has other plans while putting your justice against his. Who are you to judge without knowing the story of your victim? Don't you remember your own crimes?
Relationships: Hisoka (Hunter x Hunter)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Doll](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/722002) by Ereschkidal. 



> Okay guys, first things first. The story can be read without prior knowledge, I am open for questions if your new to the anime or anything else.  
> Important! I don't follow the anime's guidelines when it comes to who died where and when. Meaning the Phantom Group is still in its old form...more or less. So the story goes its own way and I hope you can enjoy it in that sense!

The noise of the streets barely reached the roofs of the high-rise buildings. Horns faded somewhere between the facades of the blocks of flats and the lights in between, while the sky above them lined up the stars close together. Too close together to not awaken memories in the body, filled with willing unity and imposed compulsion. The hunt of these weeks, even months, had changed something. It had made lust blossom and suffocated in the same breath when it became clear that experimentation wasn't a game for eternity. The corpses that had had to pave this path were on both their accounts.  
 _She had been unstable.  
_ _He had provoked her.  
_ The changes between them had been both fascinating and equally frightening, because two steps had demanded far more than just an understanding of the fragility of the human psyche. It taught them not to make the same mistake again, no matter how tempting it was. Not again. _Not any more._

A sigh on the lips let the warm breath penetrate the fresh night air. Time was ticking and a new occupation had to be found among the shards of glass that had been left behind. In the end, the feeling remained that nothing had been left. Only for a moment that hung heavily on the shoulders and spurred the rest to pick itself up.  
With a last glimpse of the city under the residential roofs, the sight of the blossom between the fingers fell. A spider lily, as red as blood. Transient, dying, adorable for a brief moment before the splendour disintegrated. Another memory that had to be let go.  
It wasn't easy to watch the flower fall gracefully. Slowly, deeper and deeper down until it would leave its petals on the street. For a change.  
The same one that was behind “ _Doll_ ”.


	2. Mission

His pleading sounds like long-forgotten music, reminiscent of the begging of other death-defying candidates on death row, whom everyone knows and yet no one hears. Everyone understands what happens, but in this city, under the hand of the world organisation _JLC_ , no one knows how. The guilty in their stubborn unreasonableness die, that is the only thing that any outsider can be sure of.  
The book in your hands is the personal bible of the heart – a book of law that summarises all the rules in hundreds of pages. It is what holds the world together and allows people to live peacefully with each other as long as the few words of every line are followed. _It is quite simple._ Black and white. A game in which it is important not to get a red card until the end. Only in this way can order exist and nobody is in a position to change anything about it. Not like your counterpart, whose pale face is crying and tense, looking for hope that has long since passed by. The blasphemous act of a dying man. You had warned him. _At the very beginning._ And he hadn't wanted to listen.  
With a skilful movement, you open the book somewhere in the middle, turning the paper almost magically until it remains contentedly on one page.  
“Gelvin Hampfer, you have violated the rules of society. Killing another human being is against the ethics. I have brought your crime to your attention and received nothing but rejection.” Your voice remains fixed, while the eyes stubbornly hang on the man on the other side of the room. He is dirty and lost in the dim darkness of the shelter where you work. One of his legs is artfully twisted, making his flesh look like rubber, with a handsome broken bone, for which your boss alone is responsible. “As irony would have it, I will now judge you. Gelvin Hampfer, I hereby pronounce you guilty and sentence you to death. May your crime be rendered null and void in another life.”  
Demanding, you raise a hand, reach into the nothingness that gently nestles against your cold skin. Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, a noose forms around the neck of the man whose life no longer has any value. His fingers panically reach for the rope, which slowly drags itself around his throat until a choked wheeze escapes him. His last, clear moment is filled with fear, overwhelming enough that hot urin underneath him darkens the floor. Then you point upwards, make sure the rope pulls him up with a jerk and hangs him. His first movements are wild, confused, fighting for survival that is pointless. Even more liquid runs down his leg and drips from his heel down to the ground. The dripping sound of unyielding fear blends with strained panting and the slightly bitter note of urine. Your senses hang tense on him, his movements, the horror that nips the body in the bud and makes it falter in unconsciousness for a few seconds before it cramps up and immediately loses all tension.  
 _The work is done._ His death is another merit for justice. The rope dissolves in pleasure, disappears in the atmosphere that peacefully covers the body. Now he is no longer your problem.

“Pretty. Really pretty.” A sudden clapping in the background startles you, lets the attention slip backwards and tears the concentration together with its peace in two. Your boss has found a place behind you, leaning relaxed against the door frame to watch the spectacle of the end. “Uniquely entertaining as always.”  
“I do my best, Mr. Langshire,” you answer truthfully but tense, because there is something about him that makes even the strongest Hunters respect him. Only because of this he is able to command the Justice Hunters. Nobody will take him on voluntarily unless he has a death wish. This is impressive, because among his unscrupulous entourage only specialists are allowed, unique figures in the world, and yet he masters them like a pack of trained dogs on a long dusty chessboard. Most of them were raised from a very young age. For the sake of the result.  
“I know that,” he replies to your words with a broad smile, exposing two pointed canines of sparkling gold. Then he pushes himself off the frame, comes closer in his endlessly expensive suit, only to stop just in front of you and let the restlessness slide through each of your veins. What had previously passed unrestrainedly by the sensation suddenly seems terribly present. “That is why I have a new mission for you.”  
Nodding, you wait and let his words take effect, which he leaves hanging in the air with a heavy heart. Meanwhile, the pungent smell of hot aftershave settles in your nose. Everything about your boss is a mixture of far too expensive and extravagant, clamped between thin pinstripes on fabric and scaly leather shoes in black. His bony hands clasp a walking stick, which is part of his appearance, helping him out a little, even though he is no older than forty. He looks like a wolf on the hunt, with the background of being too fine for hunting. That is why he lets others take precedence.  
A buzzing sigh is released from his throat as the tension passes and the first impression of death fades.  
“His name is Hisoka Morow,” spits your counterpart out, raises his eyebrows out of his own surprise, because his tone sounds sharper than planned. “A criminal. Nothing special, but talented. Let him decide whether he wants to serve his sentence in prison or rather serve the gallows. I am not interested. Whereby,” he falters briefly in his execution, tilts his head thoughtfully, so that the shoulder-length brown strands waver to one side, “it would be a shame about the talent. He can really fight. But this circus child has never been taught proper manners. Show him the rules by which society lives. Maybe he's smart enough to fit in.”  
“Of course, as you wish. Is that all?” Keep your posture upright, salute his order, watch how conscientiously he turns his back on you, because he knows he can trust you. His long steps carry him gracefully back to the door. At such a short distance he leaves only his smell behind. Only in the frame does he stops deliberately and gives you a last glance from his poisonous green eyes.  
“That is all. The most important information are sent to your mobile phone as always. Your code name for this operation this time is... let me think...” He warps his mouth and in a strange way moves the beard that starts under his nose and covers everything up to his chin. “Doll,” he finally says for sure. “Your new code name will be Doll.”  
In silence you agree, you are in no position to demand anything else. Accepting the names he gives you when a new mission is about to begin is a game of pleasure that you all attend. Nothing that is of great importance. But it makes it easier to forget certain deeds, because you too know how to pretend to be someone else, with the same personality, in the same body, with a different identity. That is really all there is to it.

A faint waving of the hand to say goodbye before Langshire leaves you behind is all that remains besides his still present presence and aftershave. For a few breaths peace returns. For a whole two minutes, before the phone in your pocket starts to vibrate obtrusively.  
Purely by reflex, you pull the phone out of its hiding place, only to notice the incoming message of your new task. A click on the icon opens the window with all the information you need to know. It isn't much. There are marginal details about your victim, his name, his rank and even little things like age and type of Nen can be found. In addition there is a photo that arouses interest.  
Hisoka is pretty to look at, though strange with his vertically gelled hair and the painted characters on his face. You can see that he comes from the circus, somewhere left behind in a arena he didn't want to attend any longer. Whenever he decided to end it all, his stay has left its mark.  
The picture only shows his face with the distinctive features and well-groomed appearance. You hardly want to believe that he is a Hunter who finds his pleasure in making others' lives a living hell. He kills, pursues, has his fun with the illegal things of everyday life. And the list is even longer. From burglary to blackmail, he has broken almost every law you could think of. To convert someone like him isn't easy, you know that from experience. There is something about him that makes it a challenge to convince him to stay alive and go to prison. Not for life but for at least ten years, so that he can understand his mistakes and show remorse. This is a difficult step for most people and it may be no different for him, you are sure of that. Nevertheless, hope remains. Executing someone is not a joy, because a human life loses its ultimate value. You would like to see Hisoka live, just like everyone else. But in the end the decision is up to him.


	3. Help

Soft pastels of uneven buildings pass serenely by the gaze of its visitors, while people whisper quietly on the paths and small stalls loudly advertise their wares as if they wouldn't be heard tomorrow. Their voices ring in the ears, combining into a jumble that leaves no clear word. All that remains is the disinterested look at the offers and the meek, yet dismissive smile on their lips. There is plenty of time for pleasure after the job. _That's not why you're here.  
_ The mood in this city settles peacefully over the homely atmosphere, the relaxed calm behind the windows that brilliantly reflect the sunlight of the day. Sometimes the rays dazzle, sting your eyes and make you avert your gaze. Instead, happy faces and haggling families come to the fore, their whole lives made up of protection and obedience that hardly anyone really knows. They don't know the game of the streets. Almost none give the impression of having done anything wrong. To the Justice Hunters, they are non-existent. The fibres of this society are too friendly to take on the ugly aspects of outside impressions. At the very least, the impression gnaws deep into the conscience, bears the bloom of a fairy tale, as the JLC wishes for it. No one here ticks against the time of confidence as Hisoka probably does. A man who doesn't fit the image of a small town whose light-heartedness settles as moss in the cracks of the house walls. Judging by his photo, he belongs among the grey buildings of big cities, where individuality is more in demand in every crevice than sense and reason. That doesn't apply here, to _Eguis_. Nevertheless, all the first clues outside the documents and research pointed to this innocent place, which in its charm resembles a village without borders.

Your eyes slowly glide over the lively bodies of those present, scrutinising anyone who cannot resist the offer of a good, hoping to find Hisoka. But all that comes into scene is a young woman laboriously dragging her heavy purchase, followed by a male shadow whose obvious distance glides coolly over your skin. He keeps space and yet remains close enough to this stranger to not lose sight of her. He uses the blind trust of the masses, the protection of others, to act out mangy behaviour between shop windows and mass-produced products. It's no big deal that two people go in the same direction. But you can't turn your senses away. Something about his attitude, his shy way of leaping through adjacent shadows, reminds you of the ugly ideas of lonely souls on nocturnal streets and alleys. Trusting him is as dangerous as letting the scenery pass.  
Unobtrusively, your legs come to a halt, allowing the surroundings to continue to smother in stealthy splendour. The beauty of the shallow colours, the life on the walls. Long enough until it carries your body aimlessly from one stand to the next, because adaptation is the best means of a shadow. In the corner of your eye, the stranger lingers, diving further and further into the interior of this community until he disappears around the corner of a house into an alley. With a few steps ahead you follow, feeling your heart pounding in your chest and the tense curiosity coursing through your body. The tingle on your skin lingers until the bend passes, only to discover, through the light dimmed by heavy roofs, two figures within reach. Apples roll across cobblestones, adorning pale grey soil with red beads as the basket sways lonely across the stone. Hemmed in by her pursuer, it is the woman who draws him into a passionate kiss and forgets the world for a moment. It is enviable and yet sobering.  
Contrary to negative expectation, it's just secret love, stealthily escaping the hustle and bustle of the main drag to savour the togetherness that too few truly know. A ridiculous game that makes you avert your eyes in shame. _Because there is no time._ There never will be. Sometimes the senses cheat, leaving nothing more than the respect to overlook things and retreat. The task remains the same. To recognise the criminal blood between innocence and love and to clarify the rules of life doesn't change. Suspected murders don't belong in any world of civilisation. The rules are strict and clearly listed. Yet Hisoka violates these simple words with copious favours. Whether remorse will ever catch up with him in all this is someone else's decision, but whatever drives him, you will stop it. Just like you always do. _With laws. With justice. With death._ Doing the right thing and defending the law in your own unique way is one of the reasons why you are a Justice Hunter. The world needs to understand that without its laws it will fall to its knees before savages and that those very rules make life on this planet possible in a civilised manner. They make man human the way they like to see themselves. An individual who is allowed to place itself above wild animals. Whoever wants to refute this thesis has to live with the consequences. And at the end of the day, it is the feeling of having done something good, of having saved people from themselves, that makes a day stand out positively. A tingling sensation that you always wished for as a little girl caught between tasks and problems.

The magic of days gone by makes the memory seem a little clearer. Back then, the world was no less fragile in its foundations than it is today, but the extent of it had been nowhere near as easy to grasp as it is in old age, which has advanced pathetically with each passing year. As a little girl, there was always the certainty that some of the actions of adults and elders were wrong and that there had to be people who did something about it. Someone who did something for those who didn't know how to help themselves. Guardians of the rules. Helping hands. _Superheroes.  
_ It had never been a secret that there were those with special powers among the others without anything. They lived like everyone else and died as forgotten as a prince's neighbours. On the rare occasions when your mother had taken you to the circus, the strange colours and flickering lights on the performers' bodies had been the best thing of all. Because it resembled unsubstantiated magic on a grey ground of lost desires. Your mother hadn't been able to see them, never got to see the true splendour of a performance. Neither did anyone else. No matter if child or adult. They were blind to the obvious. It seemed as if this beauty of a whole life had been created only for you, unaware that behind the splendour there was nothing more than Nen with all its facets and faces. But back then you had felt special and when the house's blessings hung crooked on the most beautiful days of the year and the screams of an argument rang through the walls of your home, it became clear that you had to use this gift. To do something good. To somehow make the lives of others better than the chaos that lingered by your side at every turn. It was a normal wish, a childish notion that you were granted.  
The end of the line had been the Justice Hunters. Monsters who devoured nightmares so that others could go to bed peacefully at night. The murderous elite among the Hunters. A handful of warriors of what the humans had created.

With a soft sigh, the fragile memories disintegrate into their component parts, leaving only bitter reality behind unfulfilled ideals. If it were easy to keep everyone happy, people like Hisoka wouldn't exist. Enemies of nations who make fun of entertainment and petty wars. Delusional characters who always end up in your boss's disposal files. _It is tiring.  
_ Exhausted, you close your eyes for a moment, taking a breath to shake off unnecessary baggage. Locating Hisoka is no less exhausting, like an endless battle indefinitely, for though his appearance is striking, Eguis offers him the protection of colourful unity. No matter where the gaze wanders, everyone here wears bright colours in wild combinations and no one shuns individual extras that convey something enchanting in the sunshine and rain. A nice touch for a city's community, but a hindrance if your destination is no less a bird of paradise than its surroundings. It is only for this reason that you resolutely open your eyelids again, ready to embark on a plan that couldn't be simpler in its very idea. Sometimes it takes help to slaughter a sheep.

A few metres further on, you sit down on a chair outside a café, casually, almost as a matter of course, examine the map, and at the same time reach for your mobile phone to take another look at Hisoka. At second glance, he is less special than before, leaving only the charm of a stranger who pursues his goals with a smile on his lips and never lets up when it would be wiser to do so. His red hair is striking but doesn't stand out. His clothes reflect a semi-popular fashion among men who like it sporty, yet handsomely mixed up. The combination of light fabric and airy trousers is not new and not little worn. Everything about it might shine in a city without life, but here it is no more than a needle in a haystack.  
“Good afternoon!” The friendly greeting of a conventional waitress in black and white unabashedly startles you out of your thoughts, makes you put down your card awkwardly because you haven't found anything. “What can I get you?”  
Basically you want nothing, yet you ask for a drink so as not to appear rude. At the same time, you give the stranger a weary smile as you hold the mobile phone, with Hisoka's picture on screen, under her nose. “Excuse me, but have you seen this man?”  
For a moment she looks at the picture with a safe distance, scrutinising it as closely as she can before shaking her head unknowingly and turning wordlessly to continue her work at other tables unasked. Even to the watchful eyes of a waitress, he seems no more than a phantom meandering unseen through the crowd. It doesn't help that you can't show more than that one photo taken of him at the polls for Netero's successor. He has no meaningful background, no real history, hardly any useful details. All that is known about him is that he is just a little under one metre ninety, wears flamboyant clothes and breaks the rules effortlessly in his constant search for entertainment. His current playmates are the Spiders, a gang of criminals who live out their own ideals at home-made feasts of madness. It is nothing more than a game started by criminals for criminals. A cute scenario full of false inanities. None of it offers a real clue that can help, and as much as you hate to admit it, wandering all over town is like wasted time.  
No matter how appealing the thought is of finding the destination single-handedly, it would take too long, an eternity that doesn't last. Being in debt to someone, on the other hand, seems bearable compared to the disappointment of your boss, simply because there are one or two faces out here with whom acquaintance has become good manners. First and foremost Pakunoda, a woman who has been on your supposed contact list of people in the grey zone for two years now. You both know that real friendship is not possible under these conditions because a Justice Hunter would crush any member of the Phantom Troupe between the domes if there were a job in this line of work.  
And that is where the crux of the matter lies.  
Justice is more important than the death of someone who turns out to be useful, which also means you don't accept a job regarding the Troupe. Whenever the day of judgement sets in for this criminal gang, it won't be you who goes on the prowl for the hunt. For that, you prefer to use the connection, a simple give and take, because Hisoka's moral education is in both your interests.  
Consequently, you dial her number and press the phone to your ear, waiting. Only in those seconds does the breathing seems louder than the whispering in the background of this resting place. Pakunoda won't be happy to hear from you, but she will be relieved at your mission. That is what holds an advantage in all this. An aspect that has been established between you even before the first ringing.


	4. Meet him

Her unimpressed tone reaches through the line in pathetic coldness, making the sigh on her lips seem heavy because the desire for a little more pleasure on the part of ally still exists somewhere and yet makes no sense. “What do you want?”  
For a moment it is breaking silence that knows not to give her an answer. The brute rejection that pours tenaciously over the conversation leaves the weighty feeling of fighting the world alone like lead on her shoulders. Hard metal that tries to bring you to your knees every day because everyone seeks the best but no one wants to pay the price. Instead, they covet the second-rate options of twisted desires that find no foothold in a world like this. And that is what makes justice weary even within books.  
Your voice resembles an exhausted croak as the right sentences finally seem within reach. “I'm looking for someone you know.”  
“And who is that someone?” Pakunoda's distaste turns to treacherous interest and for a breath the idea of a blonde woman with a puckered mouth and her eyes turned upwards no longer seems at all far-fetched. Surely because she's running through every possible option in her head. So she can beat you to it.  
“Hisoka Morow,” you reply without waiting for the first guesses of timeless ideas. The sooner the target comes into play, the earlier the world is one percent better. Crime falls, justice triumphs and the game moves on to the next round. With a new face, a new mission and another death wish. That's the business of this society. Fast and precise behind questionable methods of various Justice Hunters, all of whom know how to kill and not forgive. Because mercy is not part of the job and also because mercy doesn't make the world a better place. “He's my next target and I want to get him out of the way as quickly as possible. Do you have any clue where he might be found?”  
The relieved sigh on the other side presses conspicuously through the receiver as the hypothermic undertone in Pakunoda's words dissipates completely. “That's the first good news I've had in a fortnight.” She clears her throat, then falls silent for a few moments, presumably busy going over every possible location of your victim. _It's simple, really. Like breathing. Almost natural._ “Hisoka is currently located near Eguis. Outside of town, right on the edge of the forest, there are a few isolated woodsheds where the forest workers stay. He should be there.”  
You raise your brows in wonder. Part of her statement is familiar, the rest new. “What does he want there?”  
“Acquiring information that doesn't exist,” sighs the other side of the line. “I'm sure you already know he's tracking Chrollo.”  
You knew that indeed. Another quickly skimmed note within the data you were given, so that the useless clues are also clear to you. Considering that he's been chasing Chrollo for over a year and still hasn't had enough of this eternal game of cat and mouse, you're left with nothing more than appreciation for the perseverance Hisoka effortlessly displays. Yet it is also precisely what makes him vulnerable. Pakunoda mentioned. To procure non-existent information is to follow a false trail without really realising it because the mind is too blinded by mendacious success. He seems to put every possibility through its paces, and yet fails because of the simple lack of his own means of evasion. _He goes round in circles.  
_ “When does he plan to procure the clues?” you ask, unsure of the few options left to yourself.  
“Today, late afternoon. You're practically on cue. Hisoka won't be following the wrong leads for much longer,” Pakunoda explains, letting the tense sound chase through your cells and your shoulders tighten. She's audibly agitated, preoccupied with more important things than a circus kid who's lost the plot. “He's probably going to kill his informant. So you should be ready if you want to prevent that.”  
“How prescient.” She knows that murder is against the rules that the JLC strives for. Letting Hisoka kill an innocent man is out of question, and her caring prospect of a victim of this madness conjures a brief, thin smile on your lips, its sweet joy unable to penetrate the chest. Instead, the certainty of having to act remains.  
“I guess I'll go stop him then.” Eyelids half lowered, the surroundings fade into the background. “Thank you.”  
“I guess in the end we have to thank you,” Pakunoda replies firmly, before silence can once again fall over you like a shroud. You accept it as the end of the conversation, hang up as the threads slowly come together. Only when the light of the display goes out, leaving blackness that can be stowed away meaninglessly, do you put the necessary change for your drink on the table and stand up. The end of town isn't very far and yet it can't hurt to lie in wait as early as possible. _To dominate the game._

The untouched life of alien souls of this city passes by like a single portrait full of blurred colour. At a trotting pace, all that is inconsequential, the peace as well as the face of fair action. Instead, all that is left is intermittent breathing and a pounding heart, both triggered by exertion that runs tangibly through the body. Houses become windows, mirroring the path, the people, one's own way. Until the crowd diminishes and the last house is at your back. What remains is nature, rearing up to the sky in the distance, yet seeming far too distant from the clouds.  
An isolated hut, too far away from the others in the forest, has found its foothold at the edge of the strong trunks and dense canopies of leaves. Moss clings to the crookedly shod wooden slats, making nature shimmer in every niche as you dare a closer look. The entrance seems deserted, allowing only a tour that ends abruptly as you turn the first corner.  
 _Too late.  
_ Your eyes catch the last moment of a fluid movement that nearly slices a stranger's head from the shoulders. Blood splatters into the air in a split second, forming into vivid beads before the pressure subsides, letting it all drip to the floor as if the show is over. It's nothing more than a tiny shower from a body that sinks lifelessly to its knees in the very same breath, hitting the dirt expressionless face first. This is what remains. A corpse and a man whose appearance is reminiscent of an absurd performance outside the shows. One hand on his hip, he fans the greasy redness from a card with the other, gallantly holding it between his index and middle fingers. He is tall, red-haired, androgynous with white harem pants that end in purple bandages and make the long legs look even longer in the much too high heeled shoes. To actually see Hisoka in front of you is no surprise and yet different from what you expected because the image of your order barely matches his put-upon elegance. Not even when he glances over his shoulder to pay attention to his visitor – you.  
“You seem to be looking for someone.” A statement that simply squeezes into the space that separates you. Golden earrings swing provocatively, inviting you to come closer than necessary.  
“And it looks like I've found him.” Nothing about him stands out more than the striking features on his face, which you only know to forget with a throwaway wave of your hand. Everything about him is handsome and yet a reflection of his twisted side. Whether it's the purple fabric under his crop top or two signs of the four categories of a pack of cards on the white fabric at his chest. There is something of a clown about him and at the same time he conveys the magic of a magician on long journeys of no return. The fact that he turns completely around to face you is only the beginning. The green tear on the left cheek cries out for comedy, the red star on the right for undiscovered secrets.  
Instead of responding to the banal answer from you, there is serious amazement on his features, which quickly recovers and yet doesn't completely fade away. His eyes scrutinise every inch of you. A quirk that awakens something playful in him before a shallow smile creeps onto curved lips. “And what brings you to me?”  
“The law,” you catch harshly, before seriousness courses through your veins. The will to do the right thing makes you raise your hand demandingly in front of your chest, open because there are expectations that must be met. Your Nen tingles in response to the invitation, forming out of nothing the law book that is a faithful companion in every battle. Its cover weighs heavy, while the target seems light as a feather in your eye. “I am here to arrest you in the name of the JLC.”  
“JLC?” he inquires, innocent and ignorant as anyone who hasn't faced one of your squad before.  
“The _Justice League Cooperation_. A collection of Justice Hunters to bring justice to the world,” you reply unplanned with more pride in your voice than necessary. “You're breaking the rules.”  
“How inconvenient.” His voice remains as lilting as the smile, leaving just a hint of what's going on in his head. _Too much to control._ That's why you're left with only the chastisement a child his age deserves, shameless and controlled, as you snap your fingers and surprise Hisoka in the same breath. A hiss escapes him as the rope tightens around his neck, cutting off his air as his fingers seek a hold somewhere in between. For a moment, everything seems under the imperious control as mankind has created it, when suddenly he throws one of his cards unerringly in your direction and there is nothing left but to retreat. The target in front of your eyes dwindles with the concentration that seems so important, lets Morow escape before the Nen settles back in the right place. He takes distance, a few metres, far enough that you can no longer reach him easily. It takes proximity for another rope, which is now lacking, and he realises that in those seconds as much as you do.  
“What an interesting technique.” His lids lower, letting his half-open eyes burn on you because everything about your Nen seems arousing to him. His erect posture and rigid form of a captivating performance don't relent, don't convey a desire for an argument that will get him no further towards his goal. He underestimates the possibilities that can judge him and thus also overlooks the start for the end of the job.

It is Ren that shapes your aura, makes the book disappear, increases strength because attack is the best defence. It's what you've been trained to do and it's exactly what makes the ground beneath you recede into the distance as the space to Hisoka decreases. A solid push from the ground makes you move faster, making Hisoka's eyes widen in surprise as there is no time to dodge. Only lightning-quick defence, the defensive stance of his arms in front of his face, protects him from the impact of your heel against his body. The momentum remains nonetheless, chasing him steadfastly over the ground for several metres, because he knows how to stay on his feet. The trail he leaves behind is nothing more than the conscience that enhancement isn't one of your strengths.  
You come up with your toes, feathering the weight, not taking your eyes off Hisoka. Blood trickles from his nose, his carefully upward gelled hair letting single strands hang down into his forehead.  
“How impetuous.” Interested, he licks the blood from his lips, letting his tongue brush further over it to taste the red trickle. But you cannot give him time to understand, since there is a mission and a plan.  
Another advance in his direction meets prepared seriousness, makes you stop, aim for his legs in a graceful turn near the ground. A kick that cuts through empty space as Hisoka jumps in time, returning the same accuracy of an attack. It's a close manoeuvre that lets the heat of his body pass you by a hair's breadth as his shoes come up, cracking the earthy ground as if it were nothing more than brittle clay. Fine stones splash upwards, punctuating the popping sound that accompanies it all. It makes you suck in your breath for a moment, fix him, strike a blow he sees coming. He dodges, long before your fist can reach him, and it is his iron grip on your arm that sends electrifying pain through your veins. Without further ado, he lifts you, stealing your grip, and before your legs can lunge to defend yourself, he rams his palm into your stomach. Air presses out of your lungs, bathing the surroundings in a dull throb for a moment, before he lets go and takes a swing once more. _This time with his fist.  
_ You haven't yet reached the ground when his force reaches your quickly stoked defence. The impact remains hard, eating painfully through the ribs he targeted and hit. He is no faster than you are, but he is far more skilled in the close combat you usually avoid.  
The distance increases again, pulling you away from him, if only temporarily. It doesn't take three metres before your hand reaches the ground to direct the body, to allow the opportunity to come up and close the distance. A few metres ahead before the book finds its way into your hands once more. Hisoka doesn't expect distance, just as he doesn't expect another noose around his neck. A treacherous truth that makes him no less vulnerable. Only a single snap is needed before the thick ropes appear from nowhere, entwining him as if they were snakes. With one card he tries a straight cut through the hemp, but fails because your Nen is at least as sturdy as it is deadly.

He can no longer fight back as your breathing slips heavily over your lips. Catching a man faster than most of the other criminals on the list is a reminder that the life of a Justice Hunter need not be forcibly athletic. Not to the extent that others tout and implement on a daily basis. Hisoka's footing is firm on both feet, reluctant to be pulled into the air. Still, he won't escape death, for nothing about him demonstrates the insight it would take to mend his ways. Only the last breaths remain for him before the sentence is passed. _One that you give him.  
_ “Hisoka Morow, you have violated the rules of the supreme court. Neither the murder of your fellow man, nor violence or extortion is permitted in the rules of this life. I hereby find you guilty.”  
Unconcerned, he agrees with a joyful sound, keeping a wary eye on your every move. “I suppose I am.”  
His affirmation irritates, loosening the rope around his neck as the world momentarily comes apart at the seams. He's not the first to realise his mistakes, but nothing about him has ever hinted at surrender. Still, he agrees with the accusations, accepts the blame and stirs a spark of hope inside that the end hasn't come after all.  
“So you're prepared to accept your punishment, learn from it and, with that in mind, take at least five years in prison?” you huff, because the thought is too good to be true.  
“Certainly not,” he utters in an amused singsong before waving it off.  
“Then I sentence you to-”  
“Death?” he interrupts you coldly, letting a shiver slide icily over your skin as the mood changes every minute and never stays steady. _Not with him._ His expression loosens in the same blink, making Hisoka puts his head to the side questioningly. “Doesn't that make you guilty too?”


	5. The bet

His muscles work ready to fight under the restraints that bind his body in one place, making him look like a naughty dog on a leash. The words that found their way so calculatingly across his lips still bore through your nerves, meeting vague incomprehension that lasts a few seconds too long. _You can't have that.  
_ The concentration is still there, refusing to subside, while the desire for explanation lingers on your tongue. There is more behind his statement than he is willing to reveal. “What are you trying to say, huh?”  
“Do you see the world in black or white?” Hisoka's voice remains a light-hearted singsong, while his question makes as little sense as his confession. He's drastically different from the Hunters who have made acquaintance with the last decision so far, and you can't help but probe further because there's more to him than he's letting on.  
“I see the shades of grey in between too,” you reply tensely, your gaze fixed firmly on his playful smile. “But you're clearly not grey. You're criminal scum.”  
For a moment your victim closes his eyes, seeming to take a breath, before he opens his lids a little wider to turn his attention stabbingly in your direction. The tone in his statement seems deeper than what he had uttered before. “Doesn't that put us on the same page?”  
“Certainly not. I bring justice to the people,” you snap back. “I can't say the same for you.”  
“If your justice is defined by killing, then,” briefly he points a finger at the lifeless body of the old man whose days are finished, “surely you can tell me what crimes he committed.”  
You can only follow his execution with a perplexed expression because what he is addressing is not far from what could be. At the same time, his conception is further from the truth than he believes. Perhaps the old man was guilty, a person to be held accountable, but he received no sentence. Prison could have set him on the right path. A way out Hisoka doesn't offer his victims. He kills for fun, to feel the adrenaline and erase unpleasant fringe concepts because there are better things than eternal anecdotes repeated in life. What you do is the right thing. He, on the other hand, simply kills. Therein lies the difference.  
“Do you have any other trivia to share?” Provocatively, you pull the rope around his neck a little tighter, hoping for a surreptitious response that fails to materialise. Hisoka simply endures the rope as if it weren't even there, just another small hurdle to overcome. This annoys you more than it upsets him, which is why your ropes wrap around his torso, tight and secure, so he can't put a foot outside your established rules. Since he has admitted his sins, prison is his next stop, because he is not incorrigible and death is thus not justified.  
With a sigh, you turn away from him, already ticking off the success of this mission under successful actions in your mind, and take a few steps forward. Your ropes force Hisoka to follow, pulling him across the floor when he tries to test his limit and squeezing tighter when he struggles. His attempts don't reach more than ten metres before he uses the insidious tongue in his mouth again to ask reprehensible questions in a hopeless situation. The affirmative muttering on his part indicates honest interest in this.  
“We could bet my freedom.”  
“What?” A quick glance over the shoulder fails to blur the own disbelief. His suggestion is indeed as absurd as his general idea of your work.  
“A wager,” he repeats. “If I win, you let me go, if you win, I go wherever you want.”  
“Certainly not,” you refuse, shaking your head to emphasise the flowing distaste. Letting him go would be blasphemous and whatever game he wants to play, no one promises a guarantee of a fair victory for the law. Because the filthy stains of the world have Fortuna's luck on their side and will stubbornly linger unless they are pulled by the root and destroyed. A bet is out of the question, at any second that isn't just sheer pleasure.

Silence falls for a moment, eats through the layers of your presence and makes you glance uncertainly backwards again and again. Hisoka is obedient, keeping his eyelids lowered and the smile on his lips because the knowledge in his head reaches further than what you think you believe. His composure annoys the order in this process, turns the tingling in your fingertips into a cognitive warning whose continuance waits impatiently.  
You haven't yet reached the city when you unwittingly decide to stop. Physically there are different plans than mentally and it is hard not to snap your target's neck on the spot because his words are still flowing through your senses. You don't think about it, at the same time you can't think about anything else but his twisted view of a Justice Hunter. His impenetrable certainty of being in the right leaves a stale taste on your tongue and you can't help but pick up the conversation again. “You don't really think we Justice Hunters are on a par with your kind, do you?”  
He opens one of his eyes, allowing an unmediated glance at amber, behind whom is questionable life. Scrutinisingly, his gaze slides over your form, again, perhaps wishing for something more entertaining than a woman who only appreciates the law. Then he closes it again, humming thoughtfully, as if actually searching for the right words. It's a spectacle his ambivalent tongue knows how to enjoy. “You tell me.”  
“Because you don't know?” Briefly, his tongue clicks as secret indignation bubbles to the surface.  
“Because assessing a situation can never be done with complete clarity,” he retorts, remaining calmer than you could ever be. The arrogant way of knowing better what is right or wrong annoys you, testifies to the fact that he has no idea what it is like to make the right decision. Those who break the law are guilty and those who had a good reason to do so are no less affected.  
“That's not true, it's simple.” Demonstratively, you cross your arms in front of your chest. If he's really challenging you, you'll take it. Whether you deliver him to prison today or tomorrow makes no difference.  
“Are you sure about that?” Hisoka's tone lowers again, containing a certain allure, as if he wants to eat you with every cell. His interest lurks, keeps those so suddenly open eyes narrowed on you. No movement of yours escapes him, no breath that trembles finds its way across his lips because there is something about him that seems disconcerting. Yet he barely pushes his aura away from himself, keeping the bloodlust within, intimidating in his sheer attitude that you must unabashedly defy.  
“I am,” you reply firmly, though not half as confidently as this man. All this is too foreign for that.  
“Then it shouldn't be a problem for you to bet my freedom on it.” Gently he fights back the nooses around his torso, indicating that your actions are nothing more than selfless fear clinging protectively to him. He appeals to the weakness that you see as strength and that he has not recognised as a full-fledged problem. He has fallen into your trap because he sees no danger in your actions. _You can only prove him wrong.  
_ With a flick of your wrist, you untie the ropes, leaving only the makeshift collar in place because it's hard to assess the situation properly. Hisoka doesn't care. Instead, he runs the flat of his hand over his bare upper arm and puckers his mouth into a slight pout because the restraints have left marks. Looking at him like this is irritating because his appearance and behaviour are attractive and repulsive in one. He holds fascination that doesn't fit into your vocabulary. This brings the bet to the fore.  
“What guarantee do I have that you won't try to kill me here and now because it's easier? Or that you'll run?”  
Questioningly, he raises a brow, looking at you as if you were from a completely different planet than he. “This is a game. What reason would I have to run away?”  
“Any. You underestimate the system.”  
“While you overestimate it.” Gallantly, he saunters a little closer, leaving only a few inches of space before leaning down a tiny bit towards you. “Together, we could easily find the middle.”  
You don't reply. His warm breath reaches your skin, stirs more inside you except irritated restlessness that resembles unknown tension. Heat spreads across your cheeks, awakening absurdity in its purest form, while distance is all that seems like salvation. Three, four steps away from him before you take the rope around his neck from him as well, keeping your composure.  
“Fine,” you agree curtly. “Let's bet.”

The throwing away of the hand is more a metaphor for yourself than a hint for him. Because he wants to play a game he cannot win. The law is clear and those who break it must pay. Simple rules written on thousands of pages because each area belongs to a different category. There is no reason to be nervous, to be stupid enough to listen to Hisoka's provocations even though he is clearly in the wrong. In the end, his simple classification has nothing to do with your job and even less with justice.  
“You Justice Hunters are rare, it seems.” Relaxed, the supposed magician walks behind you, looking interested because his statement hits the mark. You are few, perhaps twenty in number. The stock of a tiny organisation full of monsters.  
“So?” Instead of responding to his subliminal question, you wait for more information from him. You need to understand what he's after.  
“Based on the rights you represent with the ulterior motive that you are basically above every rule without realising it, suggests that you represent too many laws of different batches. Means not all Justice Hunters are like you, right?” Mischievously, he tilts his head. “What man-made law is to you is someone else's view of certain behaviours that don't fit into this society.”  
He hits the nail on the head, answers his own questions, because the concept of this organisation is quite easy to understand. It needs specialists in this field and the more stubborn a character, the more likely they are to belong. People who stand rock-solidly by their faith to make the best of situations that seem futile, while the mind dances close to the edge of madness, are precisely those who seem blessed. Solely because of this, the heart of a Justice Hunter fundamentally beats for something else. Some kill out of self-made conviction of certain actions and traits, others follow the dictates of religion. All paths are bloody, but all also possess some measure of forgiveness. _Of heart_.  
“What do you want from me when you already know what you want to know?” Sighing, you place a hand on the back of your neck, trying to avoid further awkward questions.  
“Your name would be a start. We haven't even been introduced to each other yet.” By now Hisoka is walking close behind you. His presence presses relentlessly against your back, raising goosebumps. Shivers run over your skin, making you gulp because carelessness could mean death. But he makes no move to do anything, preferring instead to wait.  
“Doll,” you answer him finally, tensing as a knowing purr rings out. He likes what he's been able to get hold of, and the quirks of his behaviour don't let up for a second. Everything in you screams for a change of subject, which comes clumsily across your lips even before it could be weighed.  
“We're going to spend the night in this town.”  
 _Silence_. He accepts the decision as if it were the most natural thing in the world, ruining the possibility of seeming less awkward because this entire situation is anything but planned. In the end, only the cornerstone of this connection remains. “When does the bet end?”  
“When you lose,” is his colourless reply. He is confident, invincible in the assumption that victory is all his. Everything else is nothing more than someone else's wishful thinking. You can't explain it any other way. “Three decisions,” he adds in the end. “If you manage to get three decisions exactly right, you win. If you fail at one, you lose.”


	6. His little plan

_**Hisoka Morow** _

The water flows in warm rivulets over his skin, washing away sweat and dirt from the last fight. As if all this had never happened. As if it had been just another small diversions to the actual destination. The muscles are noticeably working, tense in the back because the nerves have long since ceased to be what they once were. Over the years, his pleasure has always come at a price. A price he too seldom thinks about. It is useless to hold on to the past, a waste of time to look too far into the future. He gets away with it, that's enough.  
Gently, Hisoka scratches over a injury on his shoulder, too numb to notice the tug. It triggers nothing but deep-seated boredom in him. Because Chrollo is still running away and he himself is left only with the conversation between the lines. Lapses like just a few hours ago when his head was in the noose. The thought of it leaves a wave of amusement. It was all different than expected, with more possibilities than hoped for, but improvisation never hurts the mind and that is what makes the situation a little better. _She makes it better.  
_ With a sigh, the magician runs his hands over his bare skin, massaging the tension in his loins that blocks smooth movement. In seconds like these, the adrenaline is missing, pushing trivialities like this into the background. Instead, it joins the other, pulling inconsistencies that eat through the scars that dot his body like ugly indentations due to the weather. In general, nothing goes according to plan.  
Chrollo is playing coy, always and ceaselessly. He hides like a mouse, allows himself to be chased by the cat, and although there was a certain charm to going hunting at first, Hisoka is slowly growing tired of the game. The only positive thing is the find, who got involved in a little episode in between the chase. _Doll._ A Specialist who is easy to assess because it is justice that she tries to convey in every pore of her body. But the world knows no fairness, no logical process when it comes to making a decision. This woman hangs her victims like felons because they have sinned. She decides. And she is guilty. Her twisted view is what makes her skill, shapes her Nen, and steers her mind in a direction. She has more to offer than that, he is sure of it, and at the same time that is all she possesses.

Between these observations, he reaches for the tap and turns it off, no longer allowing the hot water to rain from the shower head mounted above him, and releases it. Tiptoeing out of the shower, Hisoka surrenders to the otherworldly cold of the fogged room and reaches for the first towel that lingers carefully folded on a cupboard right next to the sideboard. It finds its way onto his head, leaving him to dry his hair rather roughly before he wraps the soft cotton around his neck and continues pacing the bathroom thoughtfully. There is still too much that needs to be sorted out. Every other step. Every sentence. Every movement his new playmate makes.  
A glance at the mirror gives him no clue, only the certainty that Doll deserves at least eighty-six points on his scale. Her strength is clearly perceptible and at the same time there is nothing about her that tempts a fight. That makes her transparent. Because she hasn't yet exhausted her great potential. There is more and whatever it is, the thought of nurturing it and then destroying it is exciting. Because it means power that unfolds and escapes his grasp for a moment before he extinguishes it completely.

The smile behind the idea creeps onto his lips almost automatically as he lowers his eyelids and turns away from his reflection. Then he leaves the bathroom behind with long strides, feeling cold wooden floor under the soles of his feet, which nestle against him mindfully. Two windows in the living room cast only a dark glow into the room, ultimately expressing the evening that has fallen upon them far too early. The city is already warping into a picturesque image of lifeless existence – a place where no one rules and everyone sleeps. A city that Doll is about to teach a better lesson. The truth behind the idiocy she wholeheartedly believes. If justice is her source, then the only real question is what happens when her justice falls. _What does her Nen have to offer then? How far can she go?  
_ Doll is trimmed to rules, to laws that are more sacred to her than her own desires. His heart beats for the answer behind the conjecture of what will happen when she realises the truth. When she realises that justice is just a fantasy of power-hungry wolves who find pleasure in being celebrated for hypocritical fairness. She will lose, all the way, because she cannot see the grey thread between emotion and reaction.  
Every decision she makes is equally right and wrong. The bet they are playing is that everything he will show her will be good as well as evil in exactly the same traits. She can only lose and at the same time only win. Because just actions and a fair trial are in the mind of the beholder. It is a bet of probabilities.

Indecisively, Hisoka remains standing in the middle of his hotel room, sweeping the thoughts aside because they are already fading. _Her role is insignificant._ He must not get too far involved with her. He doesn't care what the trigger is for Doll's tic, and it doesn't matter how long it's been like this. What really matters, however, are the methods that remain for the bet. He's set them up, he's held them down, and he's got to make them work. Good enough to tear cracks and conspicuous holes in a morbidly blasphemous wall. That's what decides the game in the end and he can't help but let his tongue slide wetly over his lips as the excitement of the idea is within his grasp. The sweetness is almost to taste, the lust to seize. Watching Doll mature, watching her grow up, and in the end breaking her with his own hands is exactly the kind of playfulness that excites him. It's not a secret, reflects the only thing that has constant continuity in his actions, as long as one don't force him through the menial struggles – comparable to the Hunter Exam or the Heavens Arena. Some things you just can't choose. But the enjoyment remains.

Tense, Hisoka's fingers slide over the skin of his cracked shoulder, scratching a little over soft crust as nervousness pumps through his veins and the excited trembling is hard to contain. Doll is the perfect byplay before Chrollo finally stops running. A stopover that is promising because Specialists are too peculiar not to offer something quite out of the ordinary.  
The thought makes him stop, to wait rigidly, because a part of him is struggling for composure. Something threads itself electrifyingly through his body, demanding more than simple ups and downs. For calm, because this eaten-up anticipation has to wait until it is allowed to come out. First preparations have to be made. The first stumbling blocks of the game and there is hardly a better place to start than the town hall where the mayor lingers. It is quite simple.  
The citizens of this town also whisper behind closed doors, while others pass over the groundless words and climb over the secrets behind the castle and walls. Hisoka listens to these words. Again and again, because they possess a drop of truth that can make a glass overflow. In this respect, it starts at the top and ends at the bottom.  
A smile crosses his lips with the knowledge of this simple violence, gives him the right to enjoy this night. He will show Doll where the farce of justice begins, will show her that there is no way out and also that if there isn't, rules don't matter.  
And then he will make her bleed.  
Bleed for her right.


	7. A family of destruction ~1

His first goal is so simple that it seems almost laughable how he sees security in his little game. The pleasant breeze of this city brushes lightly through your hair, making the weather pleasant, while in the building opposite, the boring paperwork has been steadily coming more to the fore for hours. In the face of the town hall, on the reddish roof of a simple family hostel, you have found a place to wait without anyone giving you a glance. The figures behind the window panes through which you see from a distance are too busy with the monotonous work that keeps them alive.  
In the largest room of the complex, the mayor has found his place, a lanky old man whose glasses look far too clunky for his small, sunken eyes. He is at least sixty, more dead than alive, and the best days of his fragile existence are long gone. In the anteroom, on the other hand, there is the strict opposite of him. A young blonde with a smile whose dreamy beauty momentarily takes the world away. Hisoka didn't tell you much about her or her boss, only mentioned that they were both family. _Stepdaughter and father.  
_ “And what are you hoping for now?” Gruffly, your eyes turn to the magician who lingers beside you in silent anticipation. One leg outstretched, he plays with his cards as if they will tell him the future and pass the time at the same time, though nothing about them is extraordinary or captivating. Yet he doesn't even lift his eyes as he straightens and sorts a few of them, while somewhere in between a reply brushes his lips.  
“A little more patience.”  
With a sigh, you turn away, cast your gaze back through the window across the street and wait. The young woman seems to have finished her work with the typewriter – an old model for lovers – as she takes a stack of her letters and drums them on the table to get them into uniform shape. Only then does she stand up.  
Clutching the paper tightly to her chest, she lingers rigidly at her post, tense and thoughtful. Her shoulders quiver briefly, like an unwanted realisation, and stiffen in the very next breath as her gaze shoots uneasily to her stepfather's door. Several times she takes a breath, deep puffs of air that fill her lungs and yet do nothing to improve the situation. It gives her neither support nor courage in a moment that seems far too distant to comprehend. _She doesn't want to go to the study, but she must._

As she sets her long legs in motion, you lean forward a little. Every movement, every furtive twitch on her features is meant to give the whole a clear picture that pauses more than sorry uncertainty. It is a stubborn spectacle in which this stranger enters the office and approaches her stepfather. She neatly places her work on his desk before turning to leave, but the old man stops her. His lips move languidly beneath the narrow wrinkles that mark him. At the same time, he gestures for her to come closer with one hand. _She does so.  
_ Creeping slowly, she comes to him again, slides around the table next to the mayor and listens impassively, one of his fingers tapping some transcript that cannot be read from a distance. Something seems off in all this, seems defective in the lines, which is why his secretary, the stepchild in the tight knee-length skirt, leans forward a little to see what he wants. At first glance, all this resembles a completely normal scene at work between two people who have more to do with each other than a daily “ _hello_ ” and “ _goodbye_ ”. At second, you discover the mistake.  
“Oh, really,” you snort, looking back at Hisoka, who is still glued to his cards. This time, however, he looks up, watches you waitingly, smiling as if he knows better. You, on the other hand, know what's going on. “This man is more than obviously guilty.”  
The uncertain growl in his throat is nerve-wracking, disturbing because it reveals less than it should. “Is that so?”  
Incredulous brows find their way up, making it hard to comprehend that he doesn't see this scenario as clear-cut. Yet it is quite simple. Even now, looking back through the window, this old man has his hand on his stepdaughter's bottom. Stroking, he runs his fingers up and down, often sliding far too far down so that he grazes her thighs and moves her clothes up to tickle the inside of her legs. Under his touch, this stranger seems to almost freeze. Unfocused, her lips move faster and faster on her ashen face as she solves the problem before she can escape his behaviour. Just watching is frighteningly uncomfortable.  
“That's sexual harassment,” you conclude, moving Hisoka back into view. His gaze still rests on you, perusing, gnawing through to his senses before a smirk crosses his lips.  
“And we've only just begun.” Instructively, he raises a finger, then gestures to the window of the town hall. “There's more to it than that.”  
“More?” The very thought is sickening, making one's hair stand on end and disgust flare – until Hisoka shakes his head.  
“Every act leads to another. You should know that in your judgements.”  
“I'm aware of that,” you snap back. He lectures you as if he knows how to put the world into words. As if he knows what law should look like, even though he himself does nothing but gleefully slaughter people who get in his way or even mean entertainment. No matter what is behind the mayor's emotion, he is guilty. Anything else is blasphemy.  
“Are you?” Hisoka looks mocking as his fingers run gingerly over the cards, pulling one out haphazardly. His eyes scrutinise the likeness he has drawn before holding it under your nose. It is a cross one, at first, before he turns it into an eight and finally a seven. A trick that makes no impression but serves its purpose. One hundred and eighty-seven is the police code for murder. Deadly attitudes behind which are madmen for you to judge. People like Hisoka, who is planning something more than just this image of sexual harassment. He wants to show you something and the impatience of wanting to know what it is bubbles heatedly to the surface inside. There is nothing left to do but stand up and take a breath.  
“How long do you want me to wait?”  
“We have until tonight.” Almost thoughtfully, Morow puts a finger to his chin, then throws you a sly smile, as if he wants more than to play. “Meanwhile, we could get to know each other better.”  
His tongue runs hungrily over his lips, chasing a shiver across your skin. He thinks of entertainment that can't even fit in your dreams. The boredom that seems to be eating away at him currently remains more than unhealthy. Quite, he is handsome, fascinating, but sleeping with him is out of the question. He is a criminal, a monster who kills.  
“I'll pass,” you wave it off, take a step back, cast a last glance into the anteroom of the house opposite, which suddenly seems terribly small and confining. “I'll look into it a bit.”  
Hisoka doesn't reply, preferring to turn back to his cards, which is why you leave him behind. He's not going to run away, that's for sure. He is serious about this game.

Solid ground comes under the soles as the roof is left at its height. Even now, no one is interested in who is on the houses or conducting clandestine business behind glass panes. Everyone knows how to talk, but no one dares to say more than is necessary. They whisper among themselves and remain silent to strangers, afraid of what might be said to them. Rumours run like shadows through the alleyways, making this city all of a sudden less glamorous than it seemed at the beginning. It is sobering, clearly suggests, that people know how to ruin even colourful peace.  
But it doesn't matter, not in this moment and not afterwards. Instead, you set your sights on a small shop at the edge of the path, which has been stuck in your view for hours. The supply of clothing is small, but sufficient to provide you with adequate camouflage.  
Consequently, you step over the threshold. The smell of stale cloth and stuffy dust linger in the air, while heat presses almost sweatily against your skin. Behind a low counter, a man has sat down on a chair, is leafing through a newspaper and only gives you a brief nod. _A greeting without words.  
_ Strolling, he leads you through the narrow aisles between bars and jackets until you find something that suits the taste. Something simple, inconspicuous, that can be shown off in the everyday life of an office worker and remains combinable with a blazer. A few pieces that you swap behind a curtain for that which clings to your skin like a part of you. Then you step out, leave the old clothes behind and pay at the checkout for everything but underwear.  
The short stay and the tiny, optical change are enough to confront the situation. There is no precise plan, no knowing goal to achieve. Only curiosity, which Hisoka has no intention of satisfying. He tells of a story behind the offence that could make it all plausible. You want to find out before the day is completely consumed. So you take the path to the town hall, at a steady pace, because the image of what is to be embodied has to be right.

Even in this get-up, no one bothers to take a second look. The attention of others is focused on their own problems, which leaves no room for other-worldly problems. You are no less a shadow than the baseless words spoken behind a held-out hand. This is not a bad thing, is an advantage when you come and go to do what Justice Hunter is all about. Yet it feels disturbing, prickles the skin because it is unfamiliar and wrong. It's behaviour like this that protects the mayor from punishment and that's where the law has to take hold. _You have to take hold.  
_ The buildings pass by lacklustrely, remaining stunning but by no means interesting. They fade into the background until the town hall is reached. The only place that still matters.  
A heavy double door blocks your passage, makes the people around it look terribly tiny. You approach it, pushing your body against the sturdy wood to open it. The weight is hard to push inwards, making entry a hurdle of its own that no one is likely to enter willingly. But as a Hunter, you have the strength, push inwards, towards where cold reflects off the floor, as if autumn had remained in the wood. Tiles adorn the ground in mottled grey, leading to dark stone steps that carefully snake up a wooden terrain. Unadorned, yet a reflection of the elegant lifestyle. Pretty, yet dead in a bitter way.  
The path leads up, the steps to the second floor, where the young woman and her stepfather spend the day behind work and unpleasant situations. The footsteps echo, making the silence behind them stifling, because there is only light here that doesn't know how to warm. Your fingertips glide slowly over the polished wood, cool, smooth, comparable to ice that seems to adorn this house. You follow it to the next door, behind which lurk hopeless answers.  
Tentatively, your knuckles tap against the barrier. It is no more than a soft crack that fades dully before a gentle voice behind it asks you to enter. You follow the invitation, finding space in a room that is as cool and alien as the human demise trapped here. Blue eyes scrutinise you questioningly, for quite a while, until a puzzled “ _Good day_ ” crosses her lips. You return her greeting with a friendly nod before approaching. There is a standstill in front of her.  
“I'm here,” you start, “to see the mayor.”  
“H-have you an appointment?” Hastily she flips through her papers, looking for an appointment book she has misplaced. Restlessness eats away at her, her thoughts hanging somewhere in the clouds where no one can reach them. It's a sad sight because all this is done and not wanted.  
“I don't.” It is kindness that makes you interrupt her search and put the inevitable facts in front of her. “I'd still like to speak to him.”  
She is undecided. The fear in her eyes of making a mistake is clearly written on her face, resembling a spectre of distant views that you can do nothing to counter. She can only open her mouth, close it again, remain silent because she is overwhelmed. Frozen in place, all that remains is overcoming, the certainty that she will not intervene, as you walk past her and aim for the door that separates you from the mayor. In the background, her quiet protest escapes, silenced in an instant because she has nothing to say. You, on the other hand, step to the other side of the barrier, into the light-flooded room of the man who has already sown pure aversion through the window.

“Mr Mayor”, you greet him in a cool mood of unexpected conflict. He, on the other hand, simply raises his head, tense from the unannounced visit. It's worthless. “I'm from the press.” A simple lie. “Do you know what is rumoured on the streets of this city? I've come to shed light on it.”  
“You are the first to dare to come here.” His voice is raspy, as old as the years he stems. “Press gadflies. What do you want that you can't make up?”  
“The truth.”  
“A scandal.” Snorting, he pushes the documents away from him, runs his hands through his hair, angry and annoyed by the chaos that dominates his daily life. He doesn't seem a man of unexpected confrontation.  
“I get my answers.” Crossing your arms in front of your chest, you shift your weight from one leg to the other. _Lies_. Anything that can advance this situation because the truth has no value. “Though perhaps only privately.”  
He laughs up, wry and scrounging like a broken engine bumping along old country roads. “Private? What do you mean?”  
“I have questions, Mr Mayor. I'm willing not to print them, if you're honest.” Silence is all that defines you. “My curiosity is greater than my desire to share.”  
“And you expect me to believe that?” You have him. His interest is piqued, makes him come forward because he feels superior. Facing stupid journalists is a game to him, something that puts him above everyone else. As expected, he is a person who cannot hold, cannot control a hunger for power. Too many men have this problem and too many perish from it. _Including him.  
_ “I don't care what you believe, but I know the issues of society and I find them interesting.”  
“What don't the cockroaches of this city find interesting, can you tell me?” He leans back, the imperious smile fixed on his lips. “That's ridiculous.”  
“As ridiculous as the ring on your finger while you lay hands on your stepdaughter?” Tilting your head, the question comes easily. A shot in the dark, making him nervous. The corners of his mouth twitch in surprise as he unobtrusively twirls the gold on his hand with one finger. Over and over again.  
“That's a lie.” His first attempt is banal.  
“You were seen.”  
“You have no idea what you're talking about.” His nose puffs up, irrepressibly, because he's upset. “She's a spitting image of her mother.”  
“Only younger and prettier?”  
“What do you know?” He braces himself like a skinny branch in the middle of paper. All he can offer is anger, incomprehension towards what he wants and what he is doing. It's an inner chaos that seems perfectly fine and you know it's not. No empathy, no understanding. _He is guilty._ And the punishment will come.


	8. A family of destruction ~2

The unpleasant feeling that remained after the certainty behind the scene came to the fore still persists. It presses uncomfortably between the cells and words Hisoka left behind. According to him, that wasn't all. There's more human error on the edge of an absurd story. More to this one decision that is already so obvious that it would be amazingly easy to put a bullet between the mayor's eyes in those seconds. But you'll have to wait and see. Hisoka hasn't yet shown you all the things that are supposed to make a difference to justice in his eyes – it's his view that seems interesting. It's an optical illusion you can't explain any other way, and it starts at a point that's impossible to gauge as you walk up and down the hotel room, accompanied by the occasional creaking of the old floorboards. There is a dress on the bed. Not yours, unwanted in any sense, supplied with matching shoes to make the overall picture right in the eyes of your playmate. This magician has a clear goal, wants to go somewhere where a dress code is important. For you, a daring dress with a lovely neckline that accentuates curves yet doesn't reveal too much – reminiscent of one of those dresses you'd wear to a more upscale party. With few embellishments, light needling, fabric that feels comfortable in the hands. Simple, yet elegant in a seductive way that might appeal to men. Whatever Hisoka is planning, pleasure is truly not in short supply for him in this line of work and there is no other option but to follow his wishes for the moment.  
The sigh on his lips remains silent as the fabric rubs over bare skin, leaving a feeling as if what has just emerged is no part of you. Sure enough, it fits well. Hisoka's eye measurement is impressive, but it reflects nothing of your personality. The sight in the mirror is well worth a second look, but in your own eyes it all seems close to crazy and even closer to absurd. Because it isn't one of your clothes and also because occasions like this almost never happen in your life as a justice guardian.

In a few moves you fix your hair, slip into your shoes and tug at your neckline a few times until there is enough security to cope with the evening that has fallen. The clacking of soles across the floor echoes disconcertingly in your ears, throwing your steps out of beat. The sound subsides as the carpeted floor of the hallway cushions the rest of the way like furry moss. By the time you reach the reception, you have become accustomed to your own presence in this get-up, ready for the next scenario.  
The clacking comes again behind the exit of the hotel, but this time it bounces off unabashedly – unlike the man waiting at the foot of the ascending stairs in the light of scattered lanterns. You recognise him immediately and yet he seems like a completely different person. _For a second, Hisoka almost passes for a normal person.  
_ For a change, he doesn't wear playful face paint. His flawless skin is more in evidence, charmingly contained by streaks of red. Hair neatly trimmed, not gelled upwards, it is hard to argue that his striking features are not flattering. The black suit on his body is sleek, accentuating his broad shoulders and slim waist, but at the same time falls loose enough to leave room for imagination.  
Your legs feel wimpy as you descend the steps and get closer to him. The beat of your shoes makes him look in your direction from his distant observation, and for a moment miserable panic breaks out under your own skin that he might not like the sight of you. It's silly, doesn't matter, because all this is just a game you're bowing to out of curiosity. Appearance and all other concerns are nothing more than peripheral aspects to be pushed away. Yet you are wearing that knee-length dress, the matching shoes, you have done up your hair just as he has probably imagined. The only question is whether he likes it in the end.  
“You look good,” he says easily, an honest smile on his lips that makes you stumble. A little awkwardly, you catch your balance, catch your senses by the scruff of the neck and try to pull them in.  
“Thank you,” you bring stiffly over your lips, eyeing his burgundy shirt beneath the jacket that compliments his hair. He looks far better than you. “The...normal look suits you,” you hang on, compulsively, because the atmosphere is tense. _He looks good and he knows it_.  
The smirk on his lips persists as he offers his arm for guidance. A bit like you're the couple of the evening, perfectly conventional in a peacefully numb city. It's a banal request, which you comply with because there are worse things than being taken out by a serial killer. Letting him go, for example. This way the situation is under control.  
Fingertips feel taut muscles under finely crafted textile, surely worth several thousand jenny. The heat emanating from him gnaws through them domes, along the skin, leaving a strange tingling in your stomach as the unnaturalness of the evening hangs heavy in the air. Hisoka makes you nervous in a way that sticks incomprehensibly between the lines. A little hazy, a little unsteady. You've never been this close to a man like him, in fear of losing control while everything is balanced in your hands. An act of self-doubt that must fade. That's not what tonight is about.

Your footsteps echo off the nocturnal walls of the languid buildings, whose interiors linger as drowsily behind curtains as the city lights. There are no streetlights in this place, only round lamps strung along thin lines between the houses, casting dim light on the paths. Shimmering, enchanting, at the same time frightening because the shadows are bigger than your own understanding of fear. The magician at your side seems to fit perfectly into the ambience of this nocturnal oddity, to manage this walk with an elegance that seems a tiny bit otherworldly. _He is different._ Completely out of place in this world and at the same time a perfect addition in the midst of Eguis.  
The evening air is cool compared to the gentle rays of the sun during the day. Soft breezes flit between the cracks in the walls, setting the world in motion. Sporadically you see drunken men and women tripping over their own feet, couples snuggling together, lone figures on their way home. You follow them all with your gaze, scrutinising their tired expressions and the longing for rest behind them. It is a beautiful spectacle of adjacent extras who are simply not made for more. And it mesmerises until Hisoka gently pulls you aside.  
Your attention diverted from the people, your eyes fall on a pretty restaurant, its lighting simple and adequate. Small red lamps add a quaint touch to the look, colouring the light in some corners, making it seem inviting as well as forbidden. With Hisoka by your side, it's both and nothing at the same time. He just wants to move forward. So you enter.  
Directly behind the thick glass door, the scent of perfume and aftershave hits you, carried by heat and the sound of soft music playing some familiar song in the background. The reception desk is guarded by a middle-aged man whose friendly smile seems more stilted than sincere.  
“Good evening. How can I help you?” is his generated question, the usual, as one would hardly know otherwise.  
“A reservation for two.” Hisoka is sure of himself because he has planned all this. Every step of this absurd first task he has planned. All that's left for you to do is watch as the stranger checks something on his computer and then politely steps out to take you to your table. Nicely draped in the middle, near a dance floor kept clear for lovers, and wrapped in a white tablecloth so you can see every single speck. A small candle flickers bluishly in the centre, adorned with roses that could catch fire at the slightest breeze. The romantic feelings this picture conveys makes you cast an appraising glance at your companion, who has already seized the chair behind you to pull it up for you as you sit. You follow this unspoken gesture, but still raise an eyebrow critically because all this is far too much like a date.

“What is this?” you finally ask, propping your elbows on the tabletop.  
“An evening for two.” The smile on his features refuses to leave, lingering as he lets the waitress hand him the menu. “This is a restaurant specifically for couples. Without a romantic counterpart, there is no table.”  
“And what are we doing in a...romantic place for two?”  
The growl in his throat seems playful, just as amused as the moment you had your first conversation. “You'll like it.”  
No answer, no certainty. It must be related to his plan, but the reason behind it seems opaque. He doesn't mind as he selects the menu and chooses a dish that appeals to him. Only then do you move back into the picture for him. “The bill is on me.”  
 _Charming_. Not helpful, though. Nevertheless, you grab the menu that has been held out to you for what feels like two minutes and flick loosely through it until you find something that suits your taste. Something to drink with it. _Not alcohol._ You absolutely have to stay sober with Hisoka. He, on the other hand, relies on a classic glass of wine.  
“And now what? Are you planning a nice chat so we can get to know each other better?” Briefly you fold your hands in front of your face, then rest your chin on them.  
His eyelids lower slightly, not at all surprised by the unrounded atmosphere between you. Instead, he points his index finger in a direction completely unabashedly, which you follow with your eyes until you catch sight of an older lady – probably in her mid-fifties. You can see her age as much as you can't in the same breath. Her skin has hardly any wrinkles, but her hands look a little shrivelled, dotted with visible veins. She smiles at her counterpart with gleaming white teeth, ignoring the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Her behaviour is open-hearted, attentive, cuddly. Again and again, one of her hands finds its way to that of her counterpart, which he has placed on the table. He is younger, no older than forty, and yet completely fascinated by his companion. A pretty sight that you don't understand at first. Neither when she smoothly strokes back her silver-blond hair, nor when these two strangers kiss. Eagerly, with tongue, leaving only a brief wrinkling of your nose before you turn your attention back to Hisoka. “Well?”  
“Love,” is his curt reply, drawn out on a strand that defies comprehension. “It finds its ways.”  
“And what does that have to do with this?” The own ideas falter a little.  
“She's the mayor's wife.”  
You stifle the inane “Oh”, draw in a sharp breath and let the information melt on your tongue. The wife of the man who can't keep his fingers to himself is snuggling up to someone else. That is reprehensible, but not a crime. At the same time, understanding for Hisoka's cryptic talk slowly emerges. Love – an emotion that can move mountains and wipe out entire nations. That woman there at the table has turned away from her husband. The reason could be anything. Her husband feels neglected, maybe even suspects it already, but it's okay because the daughter is by his side. The girl who finds him more than obviously repulsive and yet stays. He is looking for love, which he no longer finds with his beloved, and if you look a little closer, you realise that the stranger two tables away certainly resembles her daughter. But none of this justifies the mayor's actions at any stage. Sure, you wouldn't condemn him to death, a few years in prison works wonders for men like him, but you don't approve of his behaviour. It's as simple as that.

“It's not a crime,” you finally find the words, giving Hisoka a plain answer in which he sees no value.  
“Because we're not at the end yet.” He raises his index finger admonishingly, knowing that something is still missing. “You will still have to make your judgement.”  
Presumably he is aware that murdering the mayor is out of the question. However, that is what Justice Hunter often do: _kill_. Morow wants to give you the ideal target for it, that's obvious, and if he's already shoving the parents in your face, his decision falls on the daughter. A young woman you wouldn't trust with violence. But he will know better.  
The reason for your presence is thus solved, now hangs heavy as lead in the air, because every thought of this absurd idea sticks blandly to the tongue. The food isn't yet here and basically you don't need to spend any more time with the magician than is absolutely necessary. You're free to go and a second glance at the companion who won't take her eyes off you confirms that running away isn't the worst option. Not least because the tingling sensation on your skin seems strangely enticing and the pounding in your chest at the thought is completely out of place. It makes you far too nervous if you pay too much attention to it. _Leaving is mandatory. The only right thing to do.  
_ The chair creaks softly across the floor as you stand up to take your leave. But Hisoka allows himself a little amusement on the verge of a fun evening. He isn't done with you yet. He too rises from his seat. His hand outstretched, he leans forward a little to catch the gaze of some of the guests. Somewhere someone laughs in amusement, others clap, the music gets louder and his own gaze briefly wavers to the dance floor, where several couples have gathered. Also the mayor's wife.  
“No!” you hiss in Hisoka's direction immediately afterwards. What he wants is obvious, and it's anything that could push the evening into a fatally wrong corner. But he won't be stopped.  
“Would you do me the honour of dancing with me, Doll?” Joyous singsong with a hint of derision leaves his lips and more looks move to you. The pressure breaking outside on this situation tightens the throat, pressing hard on the conscience of not wanting to dance. It shouldn't matter at all what others think, should you turn around and leave. But something in you is too cowardly. Rooted to the floor, not a leg wants to move, while your breath catches and your fingers tremble. Rushed, your eyes search for a way out until Hisoka demands your trust.  
“I will lead.”  
 _That doesn't make it better. It really doesn't._ But there's only a wry, helpless smile left because you don't want to make a scene. Who knows what will happen if you just leave. Hisoka could disappear, without a trace, and the mission would have failed for now. That's worse than surviving a simple dance. Just hold on to each other and rock back and forth a little. _It's easy._ Easier than grabbing your partner's hand and following them onto the dance floor.  
For a few seconds you just wait, losing physical contact. Then a new song starts and there's something wicked about it. A hint of greed and secret favour for each other. Most are already snuggling up to each other. You, on the other hand, freeze as Hisoka slowly walks around you.

The sound of a simple guitar in the background sets the pace, pulsing through your veins in a warning southern fever, as Hisoka grabs you by the wrist from behind. In a flash you whirl around to him, letting the dress cuddly follow your curves until you find a tight hold on your companion's chest. One hand rests on his shoulder, you don't know where to put the other. At the same time, his other hand is at your back. Somewhere in the distance, violins play menacing anecdotes of past plays as Hisoka's pressure in your spine becomes uncomfortably firm. You have to give in, bend backwards, let yourself fall, tight in his grip, until he allows you to come back up. Once. One more time. Just for his pleasure.  
The heat near him is suffocating, at the same time pleasant, as his scent caressingly takes over the surroundings. A little aftershave, a little perfume. A little leeway that allows you to push his arm up so that it is over your shoulder. It's important to keep him at a distance, not to give him control, while gentle steps in a circle follow the beat in considerable puffs. His eyes fix you, nail you on a point to counter. Rigid contact, interpersonal and misunderstood. Yet you understand that he will lead – without yielding.  
He steers you a gallant step to the side, then presses you back two large ones. Close together it seems as if you commit the same movement at the same moment because it is your choice. Your body as if you were one. At the same time, you can feel one of his legs between yours with every step backwards. The heat of that closeness tingles mockingly up your thighs, biting into your breath as it finds its way sharply through your lungs. Until Hisoka beckons you, in his direction, ahead for you, away from the retreat to the offensive he gives you to grace. The fabric on his chest rubs over that of your dress in places, making it warmer, unfamiliar – fascinating. The tingling of seconds overlaps with this play, the gestures, the desire to dare more. _The desire to feel more.  
_ Bravely, you slide one leg up his side, nestle your thigh up to his pelvis for a fraction of a breath before he sweeps you to his side. There is the dance floor from his view, chairs and tables serving food before he forces you back to your post opposite him.  
Again he pushes you back, trying to put his hand back on your spine, but you bat it away. Hisoka doesn't give up, tries from the other side and again – you push it away. Determined in thought, it is you who wants to lead, death-defying and unknowing as you put an arm around his neck. You move closer to each other. His face seems inches from yours and his lips are close enough to kiss. Not for a second does eye contact break. But the lead does.  
He wriggles out of your grip, robbing you of your ground. His hand finds its way from behind between your thighs, protected by fabric that makes his grip no less firm. Shortly afterwards, he lifts you up with determination, leaving you no choice but to stretch out one leg in search of balance. But that isn't enough. While your other leg can barely wrap around his, he pushes the lifted one further up towards his shoulders. It's uncomfortable, aching slightly in your thighs, pulling up electrifyingly to your hips. You want to groan, to give vent to the pain. But nothing comes. Your lungs seem dried out, your skin damp. You realise that the sweat beads cool on your skin, even though the effort is only slight. _And Hisoka smiles.  
_ It's an unguarded moment when he lets go of you at the appropriate beat, and with a half-turn, you feel your body slide down his. You're sure it can't be any other way, because chest down you could sense every inch of his body against yours. Then, sucking in the air sharply, you come up beside him with one foot, stumbling awkwardly and colliding with someone who knocks you off your beat with a squealing sound. The magic evaporates, nipped in the bud, as you notice the face of the blonde across from you. But the tingling sensation remains as Hisoka wraps his arm around your hips almost as a matter of course.

Pressed against him, you don't know whether the mayor's wife and her companion are a curse or a blessing. They save you from the heat of the moment, but they don't free you,  
“Excuse me,” the blonde says frantically, but no less enthusiastically. “I couldn't stop glancing in your direction over and over again. That was an excellent tango. It's not often couples cut such a good figure doing it.”  
 _Of course not._ Especially as it was more like a power play than a real dance. The skin is sweaty and the heat sticks to it like a stuffy sheet full of dust. Breathing slowly becomes less strenuous, because as often as he has robbed you of your breath, you know how to catch yourself. But the lust that has arisen doesn't want to go away. It gnaws its way down your legs, making them weak and soft like pudding. You can feel the wetness in your panties and also the itching desire between your thighs that tries to spread to your whole body. The fact that Hisoka almost casually puts a hand on your bottom doesn't make it any better. He wants to play the couple others see in you because he knows you won't protest. Not in this moment, which is clearly his. Instead, he puts the answer in your hand because he doesn't feel like it.  
“Thank you,” you say in a flash, before grabbing your companion by the wrist and running. The food no longer matters. You'd much rather drag Hisoka out of the restaurant into the cool air of the outside world, where breathing seems much easier than inside. It takes ten steps to manoeuvre him around the corner, into a small alleyway with a dumpster hiding at the end. Somewhere above you, pipes lead on to the next building and steam graces the darkness above.  
“You fucking...” You don't know what he is. But he's driving you crazy, which is why you finally let go of him and whirl around in an instant to go for the punch. Your fist finds its way to his face in a flash, but doesn't reach it before he grasps your wrist. His reactions are quicker than expected, even in a situation like this, and he doesn't hesitate to play a little more. With a jerk, there is that physical contact again, which seems unexpectedly pleasant. He wraps one arm unerringly around your hips, still holding your wrist with the other.  
A giggle escapes him, amused and quivering in his chest. “What an excellent evening, don't you think?”  
Replying seems impossible. Even as he releases your wrist, the words in your head seem blank. There is nothing that can do anything about the tingling throughout your body and yet there is one thing. You realise this as he runs a finger down your cheek, along your neck. The pointed nail scrapes across your shoulder as his eyes bore deep into yours, leaving nothing but the certainty that once is okay. Once is okay with idiocy, as long as you don't fall for it. He's just a means to an end.  
 _It's just a game.  
_ An act as you slip your knee between his legs and wrap your arms around his neck.  
 _Just this once._


End file.
